


The death of Mycroft Holmes

by punkypeggy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, No Incest, No Sex, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkypeggy/pseuds/punkypeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is pretty self explanatory...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The death of Mycroft Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Sherlock talking about how he would murder the people he knows in the speech on The Sign of Three.

Mycroft Holmes was lying, lifeless, on his bed.

 

It hadn’t been particularly easy, or particularly hard: every murder had its perks and he knew that quite well. After all, knowing what other people didn’t know was his job. Going past Mycroft’s security hadn’t been a problem. They knew him and they knew he could decide to pop in at any ungodly hour. It was part of a tacit arrangement: neither of the Holmes brothers would care about the personal space or the privacy of the other. Ego and selfishness ran strong in their family.

 

As he opened the door and shoved the key back in the inner pocket of his coat, a strong smell of deodorant? air freshener? incense? hit his nostrils. Mycroft rarely smoked, but when he did, he felt guilty and wanted to make it seem as if it never happened. What would have made Mycroft so nervous for him to dare touching a cigarette again? Anticipation, of course. He knew. He’s always known. Since they were little kids. The games between them were never games. They were dares Sherlock always completed, because he knew too little of limits. He knew that one day…

 

Mycroft’s house looked like a giant office. All wood and curtains, all marble floors and Persian rugs, all folders and recordings and microchips and secrets. Sherlock confirmed he was indeed still running the MI6, as he suspected. He took the liberty of putting every piece of sensitive information inside his brother’s safe before he took the next step. A petty feud wasn’t worth the vulnerability of the Nation; after all, Sherlock quite liked England.

 

Mycroft’s bedroom door opened with a “click”. The man was wide awake on the bed, waiting in his pyjamas. He didn’t say a word when Sherlock straddled him and put his hands around his neck, he didn’t flinch as his brother’s nimble fingers pressed his throat. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. You knew how it would end…”

 

*** 

  
"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

The younger Holmes blinked a few times. “Bit distracted, apologies.”

"I need you to be focused. A matter of the utmost importance, brother dear. National security. I’ve already let them know you’d be on the case."

"I haven’t agreed yet. You can’t tell the King…"

"We don’t have a King."

"Oh."

"Focus, for God’s sake. With which kind of fantasies are you filling your silly little brains?"

Sherlock snorted.

If only he knew…


End file.
